


A Good Night's Sleep

by Puddin_in_my_time



Series: Stanley Uris Lives [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Debatably Unhealthy Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jewish Identity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, playful bantering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puddin_in_my_time/pseuds/Puddin_in_my_time
Summary: There are times when Stan feels like he'll never get over the summer of 1989. Other times, he's  trying to figure out if his boyfriend, Richie, really cares about him. And sometimes, he's convinced giving up is his best option. He's a mess of thirteen year-old, but he's trying hard...well, sort of.





	A Good Night's Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, Anyone Who Has Stumbled Onto This Fic! Before reading, I'd just like to give a TRIGGER WARNING that this story contains implied/referenced self-harm, graphic depictions of violence including self-harm (in dream sequences), panic attacks, nightmare scenes, and suicidal thoughts. Anyone who has struggled with self harm and suicidal thoughts may find this story triggering, in which case I urge you not to read. Your health is what matters most. I wrote this story in part as a coping mechanism for myself; when I would struggle with these things, I'd write about my favorite characters and make myself feel better. I didn't want to censor myself, so as you can imagine this will go into dark places. That being said: I can tell you that it does get better, and hopefully if you do chose to read this story, that will be the lesson you take away. However,as I said earlier: please do not risk your health, cause I'm sure you're awesome and even if you weren't: still, like, don't risk your health.
> 
> That being said, for Anyone Who Has Decided To Keep Reading...Lez go.

Tuffs of red hair. Skin the colour of powdered chalk. A pair of haunting yellow eyes. A curved, twisted smile. Pennywise wasn’t gone. He was right there, standing in the doorway of Stan’s room, holding his signature red balloon and staring at the boy the way a cat stared at a goldfish. It took a step forward. Then another. And then another. Stan tried to move, tried to get out of that room as quickly as possible, but his limbs had gone as stiff as cement. He squirmed and writhed but nothing helped; he was frozen. Paralyzed. All he could do was twitch helplessly as his worst nightmare came closer and closer, water drooling from the clown’s mouth as if from a broken fire hydrant.

 _“Stanley,”_ Pennywise growled, in the same chilling tone that had forever engraved itself in the boy’s brain. Stan shook himself violently, trying to regain control of his body, but every time he tried his muscles felt heavier, like chains were dragging them down and preventing him from saving himself . As the demon came closer and closer to reaching the boy's bed, he started to realize that simply shaking himself wouldn’t help. He needed to figure out something else to do, something that would warn the others that Pennywise had come back. Using all his willpower, Stan pried his lips apart and released a shrill, terrified scream, one that could have shattered glass and deafened anyone unfortunate enough to be near. His face became redder than the blood in his veins as he screamed and yelled and screamed to the point where he felt his throat might shatter into pieces, when suddenly a hand slowly came down on his shoulder. He looked up, wishing he had payed more attention to the prayers he learned in Hebrew school, and instantly saw the pair of deranged, glowing eyes staring down at him.

 _“Stanley, boy,”_ Pennywise taunted, while Stan could do nothing but shake his head in disbelief. It couldn’t be back. They’d killed It, starved It. He was supposed to be safe from It, they all were. No, It couldn’t be back. And yet here It was, the clown’s head coming closer and closer to Stan’s face. It’s mouth expanded, seemingly endless rows of sharp teeth baring themselves as the foul stench of blood and rotting flesh filled the air, making Stan gag. Hot tears boiled the backs of his eyelids, and started to sear their way down his cheeks. With certain death inches away, he did the only thing he could think of. He cried out the name of the person he wanted to warn more than anyone. The person he wanted to see one final time before being torn to pieces and devoured by a ruthless demon. The person he could’ve sworn he had gone to sleep cozied up against.

“Richie!” Stan screamed, his voice loud but croaky. “It’s back, Richie! It’s back…”

Suddenly, a terrible feeling of nausea grasped his head, and his throat seemed to have jammed up, as if someone had clogged it with mud. He tried to breathe, but found himself choking, until he could practically hear his neck crushing from the pressure. Pain burned from the tip of his chin to his collarbone, lighting his throat on fire as he gasped and gulped in as much air as he could. Unfortunately, the more he struggled to breathe, the more sick to his stomach he became. Gagging violently, he felt something thin and papery begin to scratch at the back of his throat; something wet and tasting vaguely of metal. It was killing him, suffocating him, and soon enough it became too much to bare. Control slowly returned to his arms, and he seized the opportunity to shove his entire hand into his mouth, slide it to the back of his throat, and yank out whatever was inside. He gasped and sucked in a gulp of air, instantly noticing that the object formerly jammed in his throat strangely resembled a crumpled ball of paper, one that was doused in layers of scarlet liquid.

“What the…”

_Drip._

The sound of something slowly pouring peered into Stan’s ear, and it wasn't long before he could feel the pitter patter of something wet against his skin. Some of the paper ball’s coating was beginning to drip off onto his lap, but that didn't explain why he felt some sort of liquid dribbling down his chin, tickling him slightly as it slowly spilled out of his mouth. Bringing a finger to his lower lip, he swiped across the trickling substance, and could see that his fingerprints were now outlined in bright red. Another wave of nausea crushed his skull, one so painful it caused his body to suddenly jerk forward, before his mouth opened wide and poured out endless gallons of blood, it's gut-wrenching taste overpowering the hints of bile and stomach acid mixed in. It spilled out from between his lips, covering his bed and staining the plain white sheets with gruesomely vibrant puddles of red. Slowly, the nausea began to wear off, and for a brief moment Stan felt almost grateful to the clown for letting him breathe again. The feeling faded when he looked down at his blood soaked hands, finally having the chance to see what had been choking him. The object was crimped up, but with little effort he was able to straighten it out. The wrinkled paper read, “MISSING” in bold, black letters. The rest of the details were all too familiar: boy, thirteen, last seen December first. _No,_ Stan pleaded to himself, _please no_. Just as he'd feared, the bloody poster had Richie’s face plastered onto it.

…

Stan awoke in the middle of the night, screaming like a madman as the veins in his neck popped out. His eyes were shut, but tears were welling behind the lids, and all the blood in his body had seemingly rushed to his head. Richie awoke with a jolt, gasping for air as his heartbeat boomed in his chest. Instantly recognizing the screams, he turned to face his boyfriend, placing his hand on his shoulder as he cried out his name.

“Stan! Stan!” Richie yelled. “Jesus fucking Christ, calm down!”

“Richie!” Stan yelled. “It’s back, Richie! It’s back…”

The boy took a sudden break from screaming, and started to calm down, relatively speaking of course. His face was still bright red and marred with fear, but at least he wasn’t yelling at the top of his lungs anymore. Richie was reminded not to be overly rejoiced, because Stan’s lips were quivering, as if he were choking on the air he was breathing.

“Stan, wake up,” Richie told him, attempting to shake him awake. “For fuck’s sake, wake up!”

Stan screamed so loudly Richie swore he was about to lose all hearing in both of his ears, before the former started to spasm violently. 

“Richie! Richie!” Stan cried out. “Please no, not you too!”

“Okay, that’s it…” Richie started, before bringing his hand to the boy’s cheek, “Please don’t hate me for this.”

Placing a piece of Stan’s skin in between his thumb and his index, Richie gripped on tightly, his nails digging so deeply into the boy’s flesh that a dent was left. The sudden pain caused Stan’s body to jerk, and within seconds all of his senses had reawakened. He took a deep breath of air, and quickly sat up, panting as if he’d just ran a marathon. His body was slick with a thin layer of sweat, causing his shirt to stick to his torso like velcro. Richie took notice of the boy’s shallow breaths, and how the look in his newly opened eyes suggested he’d gone to hell and back. 

“Again?” Richie asked, his voice concerned, but also, in its own strange way, a bit condescending. 

“Yeah, again,” Stan said as he wiped his brow, sounding like he was disappointed in himself. He stroked his reddened cheek tenderly, and winced from the pain.

“You pinched me?” Stan realized in a hurt tone.

“You were fucking possessed!” Richie exclaimed defensively. “It’s been three months, Stan. You’ve gotta get over it already.”

“I can’t, Richie,” Stan told him, “For fuck’s sake, I can’t, alright? Don’t you think I would if I could?”

“Honestly, it seems like you’re not even trying,” Richie told him, immediately wishing he could take it back. Stan’s constant nightmares were frustrating for him, no doubt, but not because it interrupted his beauty sleep. It was because he knew how scared Stan was by what had happened that summer, how terrified he was of the chance that Pennywise might come back someday, and his heart couldn’t bare the thought of what the boy had to go through every time he went to sleep. But he couldn’t let him know that, of course; he had a reputation to uphold.

“At least you went two nights,” Richie reminded, trying to get back on his boyfriend’s good side without actually apologizing.

Stan simply glared over at the other boy, hurt and betrayal in his eyes.

“So you're telling me you're not still scared when you think about it?” Stan challenged. “That you’ve just moved on as if nothing ever happened? Stop me if I'm wrong, but I'm pretty sure you were just as fucking terrified as the rest of us.”

“You can’t live like this,” Richie told him, “You barely eat, you never sleep, you’re flunking school. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

“I can’t help it,” Stan told him defensively, “Every time I close my eyes, I see him.”

“It,” Richie reminded, not sure whether or not he meant to sound as condescending as he did, “It's an It, Stan. And It's dead.”

“Then why do I feel this way?” Stan asked desperately. “Huh? Why do I still feel like It’s watching me?”

Richie yearned to tell him the truth. To tell him that every time the lights were off, he felt a claustrophobic sense of impending doom. To tell him that he still couldn’t walk down the street without being convinced something would jump out at him at any second. To tell him that chills were still sent straight through his spine every time he heard a, “beep beep.”

“Like I said: it’s been three months,” Richie said, “You’ve gotta face the facts.”

“Oh, really?” Stan asked challengingly. “Like what?”

And then Richie did it: he channelled all the anger and frustration he felt towards himself, and dumped it all on poor Stanley.

“That you need to man up, because you’re acting like a fucking pussy.”

Hurt drowned any other emotion that may have been lingering in Stan’s wide eyes, and his mouth dropped slightly. 

“You're an asshole,” Stan told him, before sliding out of bed and making his way to the door. Richie sighed to himself; he knew he had gone too far. Fuck, why'd he always have to go so far? Why couldn't he just be nice, and supportive? He sure as hell was able to relate to being scared shitless. 

“Wait!” Richie called out.

Stan sighed, before turning around, a fed up expression on his face. “What, Richie?”

Richie thought for a moment.

“Can you get me a glass of water?” Richie asked with mock hope.

“Are you serious?” Stan asked.

“Please?” Richie asked.

“Fuck you.” Stan flashed two middle fingers and slammed the door shut on his way out.

…

Dimming flames danced on the charred wicks of the menorah’s candles, putting on a show for Stan and actually managing to calm him down a little. He smiled faintly, his head propped up against his hand and his body resting on his knees. He knew if Eddie were there, he’d be listening to the boy lecture on and on about how sitting so close to the smoke might give him lung cancer, and how a gust of wind was all it would take for the menorah to be knocked down onto Stan’s hair, setting him on fire. He tried not to worry about either of those cases; he had more than enough to worry about as it was. Instead, he chose to watch the flames flicker on that cold, snowy night. But while the candlelight was surely warm enough, he had hoped he would’ve spent the night with something... _someone_ else to make him feel all nice and cozy inside. He shook his head, causing his curly hair to fall in his eyes. He liked Richie. A lot. But the boy couldn’t seem to differentiate being friends with being boyfriends, and although Stan was able to overlook that at first, that night he had gone too far. If only it wasn’t Chanukah; then he’d be able to break up with him without marring his favourite holiday. But even then, he couldn’t break up with him, and not just because of how awkward that would make things with the rest of the Losers Club. Richie was an asshole, there was no denying that, but he was also so charming, and hilarious, and actually quite romantic. And although they’d only started dating about a week or two ago, so far their time together had been so amazing that, even if only for a moment, Stan felt like a normal kid again, rather than the broken reflection of himself Pennywise had shattered him into. Tonight was the first real hiccup in their relationship, but that’s just what it was: a hiccup. Besides, Stan would go mad with jealousy if anyone other than him got to be the one Richie held in his arms.

“Hey,” A familiar voice said, the tone friendly and open, yet with subtle hints of caution.

Stan groaned.

“Hey,” He answered back, in a way that hopefully hinted that, although the other boy wasn’t quite forgiven per se, Stan was still willing to move on. 

“Why do Jews light candles on Chanukah again?” Richie asked curiously.

“Well, after the Macabes defeated King Antiochus, they only had one drop of oil left, but thanks to a miracle it was able to keep the flames on the menorah alive for eight nights. So now we do this eight nights a year.”

“Wow,” Richie said, “And here I thought you guys were just pyromaniacs.”

Stan did his best not to let a small chuckle escape him. 

“Hey, listen,” Richie started, and for one of the first Pennywise and Henry Bowers-less times, Stan was able to catch nervousness in his voice, “I know what I said was pretty shitty tonight…”

“...understatement of the year,” Stan interrupted. “And I thought my biggest problem with you would be your uncircumcised dick.”

Richie sighed, and smiled halfly.

“Can I join you?” He asked.

Stan gestured for his boyfriend to come forward, all the while not even daring to take his eyes off the glowing menorah, or the bright orange flames that...no, wait a minute, they weren’t orange. They were yellow. Bright, bright yellow. So much so they looked sinister. And for some reason, the more closely Stan looked at it, the more he noticed how the flames seemed to resemble two rings, complete with shadowy circles in the middle, almost like a pair of vengeful eyes staring mischievously at him…

“Hey,” Richie called, and suddenly the menorah had gone back to normal. There were no eyes, no unnatural shades of yellow. Only a few melting candles, with blackened wicks and diminishing specks of fire that twirled on top of them. “You okay? You kinda zoned out for a moment there.”

Stan placed a hand on his chest, and could instantly feel his beating heart jumping out at his palm. He was breathing deeply and starting to sweat, but he had no clue why. Maybe he should’ve listened to Eddie’s cancer warnings after all. Was that what cancer felt like? How was he supposed to know? 

“Fine,” Stan lied, before taking a deep breath and going back to staring at the menorah. 

Richie bent down, sat on his knees, and propped his head next to Stan’s. They observed the fiery sight in an awkward silence for a few minutes, before Richie snuck in a glance at the other boy. 

“Hey, what the hell happened to your arm?” Richie asked, pointing to a few red marks that stretched across the boy’s skin. Stan’s stomach dropped, and he quickly jerked his arm out of his boyfriend’s sight, hoping that would make Richie forget he had noticed anything strange about it.

“I- uh...told you: I fell off my bike and scraped it,” Stan responded, nodding during the end of his sentence to add conviction to his story.

“Yeah, but that was over a month ago,” Richie reminded, “It still hasn’t healed yet?”

“No, not yet,” Stan answered, wishing Richie would just shut the hell up and stop probing him about what happened.

“Must’ve hurt like fuck,” Richie said, “There’s even one on your wrist.”

“Yeah, it was pretty bad, I guess,” Stan told him, “My fault, though. I wasn't looking where I was going. I’m fine, though.”

A part of him was uneasy about lying to the boy he loved; uncoincidentally, it was also the part of him that was locked away in the deepest reaches of his mind. Telling Richie the truth would be harder than sparing him with a little white lie, for the both of them. His heart broke whenever he imagined having to explain what he did to himself when the pain of his memories became too much to bare, or why he’d made a habit of stealing his dad’s razor before going to the bathroom nowadays. Yes, little white lies would do just fine.

Richie sighed. “You still mad at me?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Stan confessed, “I don’t wanna be, if that’s what you’re asking. What I want is to just go back to bed and be able to sleep without seeing...It in my dreams.”

A strange look crossed Richie’s face, as if he were realizing that something about that night was different than the others.

“What was your nightmare about tonight?” Richie asked. “I mean, other than...” He didn’t need to finish his sentence.

Stan’s chest suddenly felt as if it had been slammed with a sledgehammer, and his hands started to become so clammy his fingers nearly pruned into shriveled up raisins. He wiped his palms on his shorts and tried to ignore the feeling of panic that was now bubbling underneath his skin.

“You,” Stan told him, “I mean, you weren’t really there, you were just...I saw your, ‘Missing,’ poster. Aged 13, last seen December 1st…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Richie told him, before turning to face the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder. “Look Stan, I know you were terrified. We all were. But at some point you gotta move on. The rest of us have.”

Stan turned to face the other boy, now able to see a melancholy cocktail of sympathy and regret stirring in his eyes. He was pretty sure he had Richie’s glasses to thank for being able to pinpoint his boyfriend’s different emotions; it was hard for a guy to hide how he felt when his eyes looked six times bigger than they really were. 

“But still, I’m sorry I was such a douchebag to you,” Richie apologized.

“Don’t be,” Stan told him, “I had my Bar Mitzvah, I’m supposed to be a man now, but instead I’m acting like a pussy.”

“No, you’re not a pussy,” Richie told him, “I’m just a dick, and I take back what I said.”

Stan turned his attention away from the menorah and looked at Richie. For thirteen year olds, taking something back was the most sincere form of apology.

“Please, let’s just go to bed and try to get some sleep,” Richie said.

“No, I can’t…” Stan started desperately.

“...I’ll help you!” Richie offered. “I’ll stay up all night, and I’ll keep watch in case anything does happen, and I’ll wake you in case you start shitting yourself again.”

Stan’s eyes grew pensive, something that had become a bit of a warning sign for whenever Richie was starting to win him over.

“Whaddya say?” Richie asked hopefully.

Stan sighed.

“I say yes…” Stan started, before Richie raised his fist in the air and cheered triumphantly.

“He said yes!” Richie called out enthusiastically, putting his hands around his mouth like an announcer at a wrestling match.

“...Shhh!” Stan warned. “We’re in my synagogue!”

“Oh right,” Richie remembered, “I keep forgetting.”

If the two of them were ever caught cozying up to each other in bed, they’d never see each other or the light of day again. So Stan and Richie came up with a game plan when they first started dating: Stan would tell his father that he’d be staying over at Richie’s house that night, and Richie would do the opposite with his mom. Then, Richie would go to Stan’s synagogue after school and explain to the boy’s father how fascinated he was by Jewish culture since attending Stan’s bar mitzvah, and because the rabbi would be so flattered by his interest, he’d let them look around after he packed up. Little did he know that, “looking around” included hiding until all the adults had left so they could sneak up to the old caretaker’s empty flat and cuddle all night long. 

“I’ll _try_ ,” Stan started, “if you do something for me first.”

“Pfffft,” Richie snorted mockingly, “Name it.”

Stan thought for a moment, eager not to waste his opportunity on something menial. He was deep in thought when the final flames on the menorah suddenly faded out, allowing dark shadows to consume the room. The only light that came in was from the windows, but it wasn’t much since the night sky was pitch black. Stan could feel a pain seizing up in his chest, and instantly recognized the terrible, all too familiar feeling of dread and panic that was taking over him. He tried taking a deep breath, but all he could focus on was how he couldn’t see and couldn’t think and couldn’t calm down. Anything could have been hiding in that darkness. Even a clown.

“I think I’m gonna be sick…” Stan started under his breath, clutching his stomach before a light suddenly appeared in Richie’s hands.

“Ah, got it,” Richie interrupted, and as Stan turned to face him he could see that the boy was holding a candle in his hand. The wick was now burning brightly, dispersing shadows and bringing some comfort to Stan. Judging by how the menorah’s _shamash_ was now missing, it wasn’t hard to figure out where the boy had gotten it from. Blowing must’ve been able to reignite the flame.

“You okay?” Richie asked.

“Uh-huh,” Stan said as he caught his breath, before wiping some sweat off his forehead.

“Good,” Richie said, “So, let’s make a deal. What’s your catch?” 

Stan took a moment longer to think, before the sight of his boyfriend, or more specifically the object in his hands, turned the wheels of his brain. He glanced over at the menorah and saw that the candles, although melted to stubs, were probably still able to be relit.

“Light the menorah with me,” Stan told him.

Richie’s face became unreadable, something terrifying for someone as anxious as Stan.

“Okay, sure,” He said as he stood up, before placing the candle back onto the highest branch and pulling a fresh match from a nearby box.

“What are you doing?” Stan asked.

“Lighting the menorah, like you told me to,” Richie explained.

Stan couldn’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Richie asked defensively.

“That’s not how you do it,” Stan explained as he stood up, before reaching forward and taking the candle from the boy’s hand. “Here, I’ll show you.” 

Stan brought the flaming candle to the first wick on the menorah, holding it in place long enough for the other candle to catch fire. He handed it over to Richie and said, “Your turn.” The boy accepted the object and brought it to the second branch, lighting the candle in its place as he did so. 

“Like that?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, perfect,” Stan told him, a smile on his face, “But we also have to say the blessing.”

“Uh, blessing?” Richie asked as he lit the third candle’s wick.

“Uh-huh,” Stan said, “Just follow my lead.”

Closing his eyes for concentration, Stan started.

_“Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tsivanu l'hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.”_

Richie furrowed his brows, before handing back the candle, closing his eyes, and saying, “What he said.”

Stan rolled his eyes as he lit the fourth candle, before returning the one in his hand back to its rightful place in the center of the menorah.

“Here, I’ll talk you through it,” Stan offered, taking a step back so he could better observe the glowing sight before him as he restarted the blessing.

“ _Baruch atah,”_ Stan said.

“Baruh ata,” Richie repeated.

“No, its Bar- _uch_.” Stan made a sort of scratchy noise in his throat in order to get the proper pronunciation across.

“Bar- _uch,”_ Richie imitated.

“Yeah, like that,” Stan said. “ _Adonai Eloheinu_.”

“Adonai Eloinu.”

Stan opened his mouth to continue, before an idea popped into his head. He tried to hold back a grin so he wouldn’t give himself away, and thought for a moment.

 _“Eeem ver gen,”_ Stan said, muttering slightly.

“Eem virgin?” Richie asked.

“I’m,” Stan corrected, keeping a straight face.

Richie’s eyes widened behind his glasses.

“Okay,” He said to himself. “I’m virgin. Next?”

 _“Coq ez tee ni,”_ Stan continued.

“Coq eeez tiny?” Richie asked.

“Is,” Stan corrected.

“Cock is tiny?” Richie asked.

Stan nodded.

“I swear if you’re bullshitting me…” Richie started.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Stan said, “I didn’t know we had an expert in Judaism here.”

“No, that’s not…really, I wasn’t trying to...” Richie stammered panickedly, before clenching his face together. “...I’m sorry, it’s beautiful, it really is. Just keep going.”

Stan took a moment to think.

 _“Keent lazt long,”_ Stan said. _“Cum een feev sekonds.”_

Richie was about to speak, but sighed deeply instead.

Stan couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

“You asshole,” Richie told him, while Stan burst out in laughter, “You fucking asshole…”

Stan continued to laugh in his face as the two playfully pushed each other around, before settling down on the floor. 

“Anything else?” Richie asked.

“Now we say _‘amen’_ ,” Stan said.

“Amen,” Richie repeated.

…

Stan and Richie spent the better part of ten minutes just staring by the fiery menorah, taking in the bright flames and warm light it offered them. A smile rested on Stan’s face as the fire melted the last inches of wax into piles of goop, leaving the wicks to sink in the mess.

“We should get going,” Richie reminded, “It’s late, and we’re supposed to meet the guys in the morning.”

Stan cursed under his breath, something he was allowed to do since it was his synagogue after all.

“Yeah, about that,” Stan started, “I mean, I’ll be just as good company to them even if I’m a bit sleepy…”

“...Hey, we had a deal,” Richie told him, “I help you light your candle-tree, then you try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah.” Stan grumbled, before starting the walk to the flat. On the way there, Richie rested his head against the boy’s shoulder, and for the first time in so long Stan felt at peace. He had just celebrated his favourite holiday with his favourite person, said favourite person was now pressed tightly against him, and in the morning, while he'd have to duck out of the synagogue as quickly as possible, at least afterwards he’d get to spend the entire day with the best friends a guy could ask for. Things seemed quite perfect, for a second. Which is why he didn't want the evening marred by yet another nightmarish shitshow pretending to be a peaceful sleep.

“You know,” Stan started as Richie crawled underneath the sheets, “I’ve been thinking, and sleep’s really overhyped, don’t you think?”

Richie started up at him.

“You motherfucker,” Richie said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“What do you mean?” Stan asked defensively.

“You’re trying to get out of our deal,” Richie accused.

“What? No, how dare you?” Stan said, laughing nervously. “I just think that sleep’s a little overrated, that’s all. You wanna know what’s not overrated? Staying awake all night so you won’t have to see the same fucking clown.”

“I told you,” Richie said, “If you start screaming, I’ll be right there to wake you up. You remember that, right?”

Stan sighed, and nodded.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“So shut up and get in for fuck’s sake.”

Stan shook his head and moved under the sheets, the softness of the fabric starting to make a pretty compelling argument to listen to Richie. There was that and the fact that as soon as he was fully tucked in, Richie scooched closer to him, and fit their bodies together like pieces of a puzzle. Richie moved his head onto Stan’s chest, nuzzling his cheek against the soft cloth of his shirt, as Stan moved his arm underneath his own neck. With his eyes starting to droop, Stan started to realize the toll that barely getting any sleep for three months was having on him. 

“You know what?” Stan asked. “Maybe some sleep would actually be kinda nice.”

“Wow, that’s a great idea, Stanley,” Richie told him sarcastically, “Jeez, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Shut the hell up.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

That had become their good night ritual, of sorts.

...

Richie was sitting in bed, his back pressed uncomfortably against the wooden headboard as half of his body dangled off the edge. Stan took up a lot of room in bed. A lot. But he looked so comfortable, so peaceful, that Richie just couldn’t bring himself to move him over even just a little bit. He wasn’t going to disturb him unless he absolutely had to, even if it meant having to stay in a less than desirable position for what was left of the night. Stan was asleep for once, and that was all that mattered. Although, he wasn’t the only one dozing off a bit. Over the past hour or so since Stan had gone to sleep, waves of tiredness had started to sweep over Richie, forcing him to pass the time by speaking into his walkie talkie. Its twin was broken a long time ago, so he didn’t need to worry about anyone overhearing his reports on Stan’s status. He kept it around mainly for sentimental reasons; when he was little, around Georgie’s age before he died, he would pretend he was a famous comedian, and use it as a practice microphone. That was his dream, as a little kid: to get out of Derry and join the great comics. Now, he found his dream had evolved a little. He still wanted everything he did before, but now a new priority had emerged: Stan. Whenever –however– he would escape Derry, he’d be taking Stan with him. Away from all the painful memories, away from all the constant reminders of the trauma he’d been through, away from it all. Get a gig. Get Stan. Get out of Derry. Forever. Maybe he’d even fly the rest of the Losers Club out once he became rich and famous. Keeping the walkie talkie was a way of reminding him of that dream... well, that and a fun way to annoy the hell out of Eddie; the other boy was convinced that Richie keeping it was a telltale sign of a compulsive hoarding disorder. 

“Eagle 1, status: tired, emotional,” Richie spoke into the walkie talkie, restarting a conversation with himself that had been on and off for the better part of the post-Chanukah celebration night, “finding it harder to stay awake. But I have to. To make sure Eagle 2 doesn’t shit himself again.”

He looked over at Stan and examined the boy.

“Eagle 2, status: adorable in his sleep,” Richie commented, and he couldn’t resist running his hands through the boy’s light brown curls. His hair was so soft, so silky, so much so that any other night Richie would’ve made fun of him for how much time he probably spent maintaining it. But it didn’t seem like that big an effort on Stan’s part; it seemed like he just woke up that way. The same way he woke up with a soft, chokey voice, and the way he woke up with a face so unfairly cute it was probably the most adorable thing in the world. 

“Eagle 1 feeling very turned on right now,” Richie admitted. 

With his eyes still closed, Stan started nuzzling his head against Richie’s hand, the way a cat nuzzled their head against someone’s leg. 

“Who knows?” Richie asked the walkie-talkie. “Maybe this thing we’ve got going on will last a while. Might be nice, especially if we get to do something other than just lay in bed someday.”

Stan suddenly turned to face the other direction, and started to bury his head into the pillow.

“Let’s just hope Mr. Pasty Ass didn’t fuck him up first,” Richie said, before whispering, “Hey, Stan, you okay?”

Stan made a sort of grumbling noise, before rolling over onto his back, his head swaying from side to side like a barometer.

“Richie…” He muttered sleepily, waving his arm.

“Hey, Stan, wake up,” Richie told him, placing his hand on his shoulder and shaking his body. “It’s just a nightmare. A bad dream. Not real.”

“No, Richie…” Stan called again.

“Stan, snap out of it,” Richie said, continuing to shake him, “You’re safe, alright? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

“Richie…”

“Oh for God’s sake...you know I don’t wanna pinch you again, right?”

“Richie…”

“Come on, wake up!”

“Richie shut the fuck up I’m trying to sleep.”

Richie opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he realized what the other boy said.

“You’re awake?”

“Well I am now,” Stan complained, “I keep falling asleep for about, I don’t know, five minutes before you wake me up. I’ve been waiting for the past hour for you to just stop talking.”

“How much have you been able to hear?” Richie asked, worried about how some of his comments may have reflected on him.

“Dude, even now I’m half-asleep; I didn’t hear shit. Well, I heard, ‘crabes,’ at one point, so I assume you were talking about what all your exes have in common.” 

“Just your mom,” Richie responded.

“Fuck you,” Stan said.

“Get it up first, then we’ll talk.”

Although Stan’s eyes were closed, Richie could tell that the boy was trying to come up with a quippy comeback to what he said. It was adorable, really, him thinking he could out-trash the Trashmouth. Then again, there would’ve been no need for a witty response if he had just told Stan the real reason why he was talking about crabes. For some reason, of all the diseases a person could get from sex, crabes always seemed like one of the worst to Richie. It was like lice, but for your pubes. It was a fate he didn’t wish upon anyone, except Henry Bowers, which is why a few minutes before, he had told his walkie-talkie that he hoped the bully’s dead body got infested with crabes somehow. It very well could have; who knew what was hiding at the bottom of that well? But imagine being dead _and_ having crabes? It would suck. But it would also be pretty satisfying, considering all the shit he’d put the Losers Club through. Maybe it was harsh, but Richie could never forgive Bowers for what he had done to them, specifically to Stan. Sure, the guy fueled a rumour that Beverly was a slut, and yeah, he did literally try to murder Mike, but he let his friend steal Stan’s kippa and toss it away like it was nothing but a candy wrapper. Stan eventually managed to find a replacement, but he loved that one. It was special to him. And now it was gone. Even the very thought of all the things that psycho had done was enough to turn any emotion Richie felt into pure anger...plus a little bit of fear, unfortunately. Being bullied for years by the same asshole did something to a guy. 

“How was your sleep?” Richie wondered.

“Better if you’d actually let me get some,” Stan answered.

“Ha, ha,” Richie said sarcastically. “Seriously, I’m pulling an all-nighter for you; the least you could do is tell me if it’s been worth it so far.” 

Stan gave him a quick thumbs up, before all expression left his face. He had fallen asleep again. Richie sighed, before slumping down onto the mattress and squirming his way onto the bed. If he was gonna be up all night, at least he’d be comfortable while doing it. _What would happen if I just closed my eyes for a bit?_ Richie asked himself. _Guess there’s only one way to find out._ Richie sighed, before shutting his eyes and nestling into the bed. Immediately, he started to feel better, albeit a bit sleepy, as the urge to drift off was slowly beginning to creep up on him, begging him to forget about Stan and put his own well-being first.

“Well now I can’t sleep cause you woke me up again,” Stan’s voice suddenly said, causing Richie’s stomach to plummet. He quickly opened his eyes and sat up, saying, “What? I wasn’t falling asleep.”

Stan turned to face him, a suspicious look in his eyes.

“I never said you were,” Stan reminded. “All I said was that I can’t fall asleep cause you woke me up.”

“Well do you want some help?” Richie offered.

“Help?” Stan asked.

“Yeah,” Richie said, before lying down on the bed and muttering, “Here, move.”

Stan moved his body further from his boyfriend’s, allowing Richie enough room to move around. Scooching closer to Stan, Richie wrapped his arms around the other boy’s waist, holding on tightly. Warmth radiated from their bodies as the two nestled into each other, trying to find the position that would bring them as close together as possible Eventually, they felt rather comfortable with Richie’s head on Stan’s shoulder, and Stan’s stomach on Richie’s back. Their slight height difference meant Stan needed to scrunch himself together to make it happen, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, like that,” Stan said with a smile.

So close together, Richie was able to spot tiny hairs beginning to grow on Stan’s upper lip, and on the sides of his face. 

“So, in your religion, you’re pretty much a child predator, right?” Richie asked.

Stan furrowed his brows in confusion.

“What?” He asked.

“Well you said it yourself: when you read from the...Jewish Bible thingy, you became a man. I never did that, so I’m still underage.”

“Okay, well first of all the Jewish Bible thingy is called the Torah,” Stan explained, “and I’m the same age as you, so God’s cool with it. Having a bar mitzvah doesn’t suddenly make me old.”

“Good to know,” Richie said, “Because I like being with you this way.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stan agreed.

“And by this way I mean…” Richie started.

“...yeah, I get it,” Stan interrupted.

“Oh, okay,” Richie said, before pressing his mouth to Stan’s ear and shouting, “SEXUALLY…”

“...alright, I get it,” Stan said, a smile on his face as he playfully shoved the other boy off him.

“Just checking,” Richie said as he reattached himself to his boyfriend’s body.

“Well just check some other time,” Stan told him, “I forgot how awesome it is to actually enjoy sleeping.”

“I know right,” Richie said, “It’s fucking incredible. Like getting head for the first time every night.”

Stan’s face twisted with slight disgust.

“You’re so fucked up,” Stan told him.

“I would be if you weren’t such a prude,” Richie responded.

Stan didn’t seem to laugh, or smile, or even react in any way whatsoever. He just laid still, a pensive yet unreadable expression on his face. Turning over on his other side, he readjusted himself so that his chest could be pushed up against Richie’s, and so his eyes could be directly in line with the lenses of Richie’s glasses.

“Have we ever made out before?” Stan asked, his tone almost one of confusion.

“Of course we have,” Richie told him, surprised and kind of offended that he’d forgotten, “Remember our first date? During _Back to the Future II_?” 

“No, I mean really _made out_ ,” Stan explained, “Like with tongue, and hands.”

“Hands?” Richie asked confusedly.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “You know? Like I put my hands on your shoulders, and you’ll put yours on mine.”

“Oh,” Richie realized, “So you mean, like, really make out? Like spend so long with our tongues in each other’s mouths that seasons change and days fly off calendars?”

“Yeah, like that,” Stan said.

Richie thought for a moment; with all the time they’d been spending together, they must’ve done something like that at least once. The more he racked his brain, the quicker he came to realize that, to his surprise and disappointment, they hadn’t. 

Richie thought for a moment; the two had hugged, cuddled, cozied up to each other, made constant sex jokes, but not once- not even on their first date- had they managed to squeeze in a truly long, meaningful kiss. The one on their first date was incredible, no doubt about it, but the fear of being caught in the act forced them to rush the moment. Richie still remembered the taste of the boy’s lips as they broke apart, and how he felt like he could get off on that for the rest of his life. Since that night it had been just quick kisses on sidewalks and almost always before bed, but none had ever lasted as long as either of them wanted. The Losers Club was more than accepting of their relationship, but what about the rest of the town? How would other kids react if they caught them getting freaky in the boys locker room? What kind of phone calls would “concerned,” teachers make to their parents if they were caught with their lips crashing into each other? Neither of them had the stomach to give it much thought. But that night, it was just the two of them. No bullies, no dumbass grown-ups, not even Bill or Beverly or the rest of their friends. Just a jokester and a Jewish kid, lying in bed and praying to have a good night’s sleep.

Richie stared past the lenses of his glasses and into Stan’s eyes, boring into them enough to peek at his soul. For the first time since the summer, he didn’t see a poor, fragile, traumatized boy; he saw Stan. His friend, Stan. The one who was smart, and a bit too mature for his age, and who insisted on wearing a yamaka to school every day, despite the comments he’d hear in the hallways. His now boyfriend, Stan. Richie licked at his lips, softening them up for the moment to come. Just the thought of it was enough to ravage his stomach with butterflies, to the point where for a brief moment all he could think about were the sweating of his palms, and whether or not his mouth still tasted like delivery pizza. Fortunately, he managed to push aside his worries and doubts, not willing to let them or anything else get in the way. This was going to be their moment. And nothing was going to take it away from them. 

…

“Close your eyes,” Richie told the other boy.

“Why?” Stan asked.

“Just do it,” Richie told him.

Stan shut his eyes, causing the world around him to become nothing but darkness. His brain didn’t have the time to panic or worry about what would be waiting for him when he opened his eyes before a pair of sweet, soft lips slowly started sipping on his own. Stan moved his hand to the back of Richie’s neck and pulled the boy closer, tilting his head so he could more easily slip his tongue through the slit between the boy’s lips. The longer he spent inside Richie’s mouth, the more every sound around him was blocked out, until all he could hear were the moans escaping their mouths and the pounding beat of their hearts. Stan wished they could keep going, that they’d never stop, that the rest of their lives would be spent feeling each other up, but it wasn’t long before his breath started to run out. 

“Stan…” Richie moaned against his lips, before the other boy slowly pried himself apart.

“I just…” Stan started, wishing he’d taken Phys. Ed more seriously as he breathed deeply, hoping to catch his breath before his face went permanently blue. It didn’t feel blue, though. It felt red. Bright, hot red. And so did Richie’s. “... I just need to catch my breath.”

“Yeah, same,” Richie confessed, before taking in deep breath after deep breath.

“Can I open my eyes now?” Stan asked.

“Yeah, go for it,” Richie told him.

Licking at his moist lips, Stan took one last breath and opened his eyes. He expected to see Richie laying there, a cocky yet still dumbfounded look on his handsome face. He expected to see the look of a boy desperate to get back to their mind-blowing embrace. He expected to see the friend he loved so much holding him in his arms, protecting him from all his worst fears.

Instead, he was greeted with the inside of an unnaturally large mouth, one with rows upon rows of rotting but sharp teeth slicing away at the flesh of his face. He was suddenly bleeding from gashes on both cheeks, bright red liquid dripping down from the searing pains in his skin. Buried emotions took ahold of him, and all he could feel were loneliness, and betrayal. His friends had abandoned him, left him to die, left him to be devoured by the woman with the warped face. They made him go into that fucking house, and now they had just left him. No one cared about him. No one loved him. Except for Pennywise, of course. It was having a blast scarring him for life. 

_“Stan…”_ A faint voice called out, urgency rising in its tone, _“Stan...Stan…Stan calm the fuck down...”_

The world around him changed so quickly, so drastically, that he actually felt whiplash. Within seconds, he was sitting directly on the edge of the bed, his throat sore from what was probably screaming, and his face flushed. He was shaking, and panting, his rapid heartbeat thundering away painfully. His skin was on fire, and he could feel droplets of sweat seeping through his pores in a useless attempt to cool him off. And then of course there was Richie, sitting on the opposite edge with a panicked look in his eyes. His chest was rising and falling quickly, his breaths so heavy Stan thought the boy might hyperventilate. 

“What happened?” Richie asked panickedly.

“W-w-w...” 

Stan tried to speak, but all breath had suddenly left him, and every letter he tried to utter caused his chest to ache excruciatingly. 

“Water?” Richie suggested.

“Water!” Stan cried out, not in anger or frustration, but in pure, utter panic. The walls felt like they were closing in, and every time he blinked he saw those haunting, completely white eyes and blade-like teeth.

“Okay, I’ll go get some,” Richie reassured him, before hopping off the bed and running to the bathroom. Stan tried again to catch his breath, but the pain in his chest was enough to bring him to tears. He felt as if he was dying, fading away, but that sounded all too peaceful for what he was going through. He felt agony, in both his mind and body. His brain had been scrambled, bits and pieces of it sent flying in all directions as what was left of his sanity tried in vain to reassemble itself. 

_“Hiya, Stanley,”_ A voice called out from the shadows; it was childlike in a way, but there was no denying something was seriously off about it. A pair of sharp eyes suddenly revealed themselves, and then from out of the darkness, Pennywise creeped out, bowing theatrically like an actor on stage. Coming closer to the bed, It bent over slightly and reached out a hand, causing a crumpled, blood soaked ball of paper to roll out from underneath It’s sleeve and onto the bed. Stan didn’t even need to unravel it to know what it was.

 _“Having fun yet?”_ All of the sudden, It’s face changed with the speed of lightning, losing all semblance of innocence and trading it in for an impossibly wide mouth and giant, bulging eyes. It lunged forward at him so quickly that all surroundings faded into an endless, streaming blur of shadows and colour...

Reality snapped into place as Richie walked back inside the room, a styrofoam cup nearly overflowing with water now in his hand. He sat down on his side of the bed and quickly handed the cup over to Stan, who accepted it as if his life depended on drinking its contents. Bringing it to his lips, Stan chugged the entire thing within seconds, instantly feeling the cool temperature of the liquid soothing him. As the last drops of water slid past his tongue, he opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp pain tore through his throat, as if someone had taken a knife and started slicing away at it. He scrunched up his face, as tears continued to pour down from his eyes and glisten past his cheeks. 

“Are you okay?” Richie asked him, and all Stan could do was shake his head back and forth, the abundance of water in his eyes turning his world into a fuzzy vision. His face had become so red and scrunched up that it had changed out of its usual shape, to the point where Stan wondered if he even looked like himself anymore. Every breath was a slow, painful wheeze, and all the words he wanted so desperately to say had lodged themselves in his throat, suffocating him. He whimpered and wailed, the embarrassing noises that came with crying stripping away all sense of pride and dignity, leaving him to be just the broken down shadow of a boy he once knew. 

“Hey, come here,” Richie told him, wrapping his arms around the other boy and pulling him closer until the two were holding each other tightly. Stan buried his head in Richie’s shoulder, his panicked sobs sounding more like screams as he held onto his boyfriend. 

“I- I…” Stan stammered behind his tears. 

Richie brought the boy’s forehead to his lips and kissed it tenderly, as Stan collapsed onto his body. 

“Hey, I got you,” Richie reassured, “You’re safe now. Remember what Bill said? If we stick together, we’ll win. And that’s what we’re doing, so we’ve gotta be okay, right?”

“I- can’t…” Stan sobbed, “...can’t close my eyes without seeing It jump out at me...”

His strained, chokey voice broke down, and his words melted into wheezes and weeps. Richie strengthened his grip on the boy’s body, rocking him back and forth while patting his hair. 

“It’s okay,” Richie reassured, every stroke of his fingers soothing Stan like blissfully sweet honey to a flu-induced sore throat, “I got you.”

After letting out some more tears onto Richie’s shoulder, Stan started to feel his heart steadying, and slowly he had began to catch his breath. 

“You’re okay,” Richie told him, “You’re gonna be okay.”

...

The two spent around half an hour like that, neither of them so much as uttering a single word. Stan was still shaken from what he saw, and Richie was worried to death about accidentally saying the wrong thing. He needed to be Stan’s perfect boyfriend, but how could he do that when most of their relationship revolved around making fun of each other? Even though there was always an element of playfulness, any normal conversation that may have ensued between the two still would’ve been just plain insensitive, considering how terrified Stan was. Even this long after his flashback, he was still curled up and cradled in Richie’s arms, and while that felt nice enough, it would’ve been nicer if it had been on a happier occasion. One like coming back from a sad movie late at night, or even doing poorly on a test and needing moral support. Really, anything other that the one they were in would have been better.

Now, Richie was never exactly fond of Pennywise, in any, way, shape or form the demon may have taken, but that night he almost wished It was still alive just so he could be the one to finish It off himself. Not just for taking away the possibility of a good night’s sleep from his boyfriend, but for how Stan lived now in general. He used to be a straight A’s student, and almost never got lower than a B minus on a test, even if everyone else in the class completely bombed it. Since the summer ended, he had been botching homework or just straight up forgetting to do it, and every test, assignment, or project he completed was greeted with a sigh of pity from his teachers. And worst was, it wasn’t his fault at all. If someone didn’t give a damn about their marks, then they probably deserved whatever they ended up getting...or at least that’s what Stan always said; Richie often begged to differ. But the one thing they could both agree on was that, if someone was brilliant, hard-working, and giving their all, they deserved only the best. And thanks to Pennywise, that wasn’t what Stan was getting. Not anymore.

“Pennywise, I swear,” Richie started, “If you do come back in twenty-seven years, you’ll be more fucked than Rob Lowe in that tape.”

“Huh?” Stan asked, his eyes droopy and his head becoming heavier against Richie’s shoulder.

“Nothing,” Richie said, “Just wanna know if you need some more water.”

“No, I should be okay,” Stan told him, “Thanks though.”

“No problem,” Richie told him, looking down at him with a faint smile. Okay, so holding his boyfriend was still pretty great regardless of the scenario. But it still would’ve been better if Stan was able to just shut his eyes and relax. 

“Hey, you know you look pretty tired…” Richie started.

“...I’m not going back to sleep,” Stan told him, “I’m sorry...I- I just can’t.”

Richie sighed.

“Yeah, I figured,” He said, before his mouth opened wide from the loud yawn he failed to suppress.

“Are you tired?” Stan asked, a hint of glumness in his voice. 

“No, I’m wide awake,” Richie lied, paying extra attention to making sure there wasn’t a single trace of snark or sarcasm in his voice. He rubbed his eyes. “Seriously, you couldn’t pay me to fall asleep right now.”

“Okay, great,” Stan told him, before looking up at him with wide, broken eyes and quivering lips. “Cause you really calm me down. And rile me up, sometimes, but only when I should be. I guess what I’m trying to say is you’re awesome pretty much all the time.”

Richie nodded.

“Hey, if we’re not going to sleep,” Richie started, “can we at least lie down? I mean, it’ll be more comfortable for the both of us than sitting like this.”

“Yeah, true,” Stan admitted, “Okay, sure.” 

The two squirmed out of their embrace briefly, but only so they could find a new position lying down. Nestling into the soft sheets, Richie wrapped his boyfriend up in his arms and held on tightly. Stan brushed his head against the boy’s chest and settled down on it, while Richie stroked his back comfortingly, giving him all the attention and pampering he could ever ask for. 

“Better?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, much,” Stan admitted, before the lids of his eyes slowly started to hang over his pupils.

“You sure you’re not tired?” Richie asked skeptically.

“I told you,” Stan started, his words slurred and devoid of all emotion, “I’m fi…”

Stan seemed to have completely shut down, his eyes now fully closed as his head fell against the pillow. Richie thought for a moment. _Should I wake him up? It’s what he’d want._ But Stan just looked so peaceful, so content, in a way he hadn’t in what felt like forever, and disturbing him would've been nothing short of a crime. Releasing a heavy sigh, Richie sat back against the mattress, his eyes staring up at the ceiling as if it held the answers to every question in the universe. _If he has a nightmare the shit’s gonna hit the fan,_ he thought to himself. _He’ll be so pissed I let him fall asleep._ Quickly, he glanced over at the boy beside him, taking in the pleased expression on his face. If nothing else, Stan would at least have those moments of peace during the night. _Worth it_ , Richie thought as he turned to face the ceiling once again, before sighing deeply. Since when did sleeping become so complicated? All it should be was just lying in a bed, closing your eyes, and letting the day’s exhaustion do the rest. Ever since Pennywise, dozing off became a sort of chess game with Stan’s fear, both the boy and his emotion taking turns having their own moments of control. Richie didn’t want brief moments, though; he wanted his boyfriend to feel okay again. 

The longer he spent staring at the ceiling, the more he noticed a symbol on it, one obscured by the darkness of the room. Squinting, Richie could see that it was a sort of star, formed by interlocking upside down and right side up triangles. He had seen it before somewhere around the synagogue, but wasn’t sure what religious meaning it had. Stan would be probably be more than happy to explain it to him when he wakes up. He _loved_ explaining Jewish things, from why his dad couldn’t drive every Saturday to why he was forced to eat a glorified cracker for a week near Easter. Stan was pretty involved in his religion, something Richie could never say about himself. Sure, Christmas was fun and all, but he dreaded going to church on Sundays, especially when it meant missing out on quality time with his friends (if he had to choose between being around his mom or the people who really cared about him, he’d take the latter in a heartbeat). He didn’t even pray, on the grounds that, if he were being honest with himself, it all seemed like bullshit. Although to be fair, that’s probably what he would’ve said about a child-eating clown a few months ago. Still, figuring that since he was in a synagogue, Richie decided to make an exception and test the (holy) waters.

“Hey, God,” Richie said, “It’s me, Richie. Tozier. From Derry?”

The star simply stared down on him.

“This is bullshit,” Richie muttered under his breath, before sighing with frustration. For all he knew, Stan was in the middle of another traumatizing dream, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it. So if he truly was in the house of the God Stan was so devoted to, then why weren’t of all his problems solved?

“I wanna know what your problem with Stan is,” Richie challenged, “Do you have something against him? Is it a Jewish thing? Do you have something against Jews? Because someone should really tell him that.”

Stan began to stir next to him, as if in protest, but it didn’t look like he was having a nightmare, so Richie refused to wake him.

“So tell me,” Richie continued, “why isn’t Stan able to move on like the rest of us? Don’t get me wrong, we’re all still pretty shaken up, but not as much as…”

A loud, booming sound rang through the air, like something pounding on the synagogue’s walls, fighting to get in and snatch the boys. Panic rose through Richie’s body, stiffening the hairs on his limbs and curdling his skin with goosebumps. He dashed to his boyfriend’s side, quickly holding onto him like a pillow and burying his head in his shoulder. A few seconds passed before Richie figured out that the sound was probably just something completely normal, like a homeless person stumbling around or an alley cat getting spooked by a car driving by. He practically fought the other boy’s body off of his own, and returned to lying on his back.

“Okay fine,” Richie admitted, “You got me there. But only because I wasn’t ready.”

The star somehow looked like it was pitying him.

“Look, just tell me what I can do to help him,” Richie said, “because...I miss him. He hasn’t been himself since we took that oath, and don’t get me wrong- he’s still awesome- but I just wish he could be awesome _and_...I don’t know, mentally stable?”

Now the star just looked like it thought he was being offensive.

“Anyways, so yeah, that’s it, I guess,” Richie said, “Just...let him be alright, alright? He shouldn’t be living like this. He should be happy, with his friends, like kids our age should be. Well, he always did act a little older for some reason, but that’s just cause he’s that kinda person, not cause he’s scared of being eaten alive. Plus he’s got...what’s it called? ABC or some shit like that?”

He didn’t know why he expected the star to answer him.

“Whatever,” Richie said, “That thing where he needs everything to be perfect or else the world will end or something. He’s got that. I was the first person he told, by the way…I mean, it was more of an accident, but still: I was the first. I said something kinda mean, but then he called my mom a slutty alchie and we both laughed, so I think that means we’re even. We’re weird like that. But he seems pretty happy when he’s with me, and God...wait, you? Whatever- know that I’m happy as fuck when I’m with him.”

For the only time that evening, the star seemed to be smiling.

“You got everything?” Richie asked, before figuring that silence deemed acceptance. “Good. Well, _shalom_ , I guess.”

Richie rolled over onto his side, taking in a deep breath as his head came to rest on the soft pillow. _That went...well, I think. Guess I’ll find out soon enough ._

…

With Richie turned away, Stan seized the chance to open his eyes, before covering his gaping mouth with the palm of his hand. _Richie didn’t say any of those things,_ he tried to convince himself, _he didn’t just trashmouth God like that. Because if he did, then I’m in big trouble. I’m already on His bad side thanks to the whole, “Man shall not lie with man,” thing._ Unfortunately, no matter how he told himself otherwise, he knew deep down that he didn’t imagine Richie’s prayer. It was too detailed, not to mention lacking in the usual, nightmarish festivities that went hand in hand with his recent dreams. 

Richie’s body squirmed slightly, before his head came to rest on Stan’s shoulder. 

“Weird,” Richie said, “I spent the entire night wishing you’d fall asleep, but now that you are I kinda wish you weren’t. I miss talking to you, even if it’s just about whatever dreams are scaring the crap out of you.”

Stan opened his mouth to speak, but caught his words just as they were about to part from his lips. He couldn’t give himself away like that. The whole point of pretending to fall asleep was to make Richie feel better; dropping the act would take that away from him. Besides, he was pretty curious to hear what else the boy had to say.

“But I’m glad you can’t hear that,” Richie admitted, “or what I just said before. I’m sure you’d be pissed at me for talking to God like that.”

 _Mmhhhmm,_ Stan thought to himself.

“Still,” Richie started, and Stan could instantly tell that he wouldn’t like where this was going, “I can’t help but feel like, if there really was a God, you wouldn’t have been put through so much shit. None of us would’ve. Guess that means there’s no God then.”

 _WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!_ Stan’s brain screamed. Who did Richie think he was, talking about God like that in a _synagogue_ of all places? Didn’t he know how disrespectful that was? 

“But you believe in him, so I’ll play along,” Richie said.

Without thinking, Stan sighed with relief. Richie lifted his head to inspect the boy. Stan did his best to make no sudden movements, so he wouldn’t give himself away anymore than he already had. 

“Huh,” Richie said to himself, before returning to the boy’s shoulder. “You seem pretty asleep to me. You wouldn’t mind if I took a little nap, right? Cause I’d rather be awake when we’re with Bill and the guys tomorrow.”

 _Later today,_ Stan corrected, while Richie seemed to move himself around a little, as if he were trying to get in a position comfortable enough to sleep in.

“Night, night,” Richie told him, “For now, anyways. I’ll only be out a few minutes.”

Stan felt Richie’s head become heavy on his shoulder, and for a moment it seemed as if his boyfriend wasn’t even in bed with him at all. It was like he was completely alone in that room, just waiting for something to pop out of the ground or float out of the shadows. His hands were shaking, and although he seemed to be sweating, his body became so cold he swore he was turning into a popsicle, one that was cracking and splitting and breaking down into liquefying fragments of itself. But just then, he remembered something Richie had said earlier: _I miss him. He hasn’t been himself since we took that oath._ He thought that over for a moment; Richie was wrong there, right? Of course he was. Sure, nowadays Stan spent every night fighting to stay awake so he wouldn’t have to face what awaited in his dreams, and yeah, he was now failing every class, not to mention refusing to eat more than a few bites at every meal, but things weren’t _so_ different, right? _Of course not,_ Stan thought to himself, before finally opening his eyes. He was wrapped tightly around Richie’s body, and his head was laid back against the pillow, so once he regained his sight he instantly saw the lines of red that appeared in strokes across his arm. Spotting the one that stretched across his wrist, he poked it with his finger, triggering a surge of pain that rushed through him. It didn’t make sense; that was from one of the first times he used the razor on himself, which was well over a month ago. It should’ve healed by now. He could still remember how he held the blade to his veins, thinking that he could end all the pain, all the trauma with one single flick. He also remembered how he chose not to, and instead settled on testing the waters by inflicting some less permanent damage. Or so he thought, anyways.

Every few weeks or so, he would steal back the razor and go at it again, usually making his mark somewhere on his forearm, but he never came as close to ending it all as he did that night. It was only at that moment, reminiscing about what he had done to himself while laying in bed with his blissfully unknowing boyfriend, did he truly understand what Richie had said. _I miss him. He hasn’t been himself since we took that oath._ He repeated the line a few times over in his head, each time losing himself more and more in a swarm of memories that consumed him like a cloud of locusts. He remembered the blood oath, when the Losers all held hands and swore to return to Derry if Pennywise ever came back. But for him, it was more than that: it was the day he realized that pain was able to distract him from his fears. His mind’s eye was suddenly overflowing with memories, some that actually happened, and some that were just imaginary. The bloodied shard of the broken bottle, the crimson blade that tore through his arm, the look on Richie’s face if he ever found out about…Stan suddenly found his mind running off with the idea of Richie walking up one morning to find his cold, lifeless body lying on the bathroom floor, blood dripping from fresh cuts on his newly pale skin. Would Richie cry? He never did, except when he found Stan after the boy was separated from the group at Neibolt. But maybe the sight of his dead boyfriend would do the trick again. He’d probably be forever changed. Then again, he was already forever changed. Richie couldn’t go back to being who he was before the summer, especially not with his boyfriend living his life in pure misery and fear, always dreading night time because of the terror it might rain down on him. And while no, Stan wasn’t dead, he wasn’t exactly alive either. Existing yes, but _alive_? Alive was being with friends, enjoying their company while talking and laughing and goofing around. Alive was waking up every morning ready to take on whatever came his way. Alive was learning to never give up, even in the wake of something as traumatizing as the summer of ‘89, and alive was flashing two middle fingers to anyone who ever had the balls to mess around with the Losers Club. How could he have wasted so much time just existing when it was so much better to be alive? All the hours spent shaking in fear, all the time spent slicing himself up, it all could’ve been spent with Bill, or Mike, or Eddie, or…

“Richie,” Stan said aloud, turning to face the boy next to him as an idea popped into his head. That year, he had been forced to outrun a pack of cruel and merciless bullies, separated from his friends both aboveground and in a sewer, and last but not least chased around town by an immortal clown that ate children. But even after all that, he was still breathing. His heart was still beating, and blood still flowed in his veins. His life had been stolen from him, but now, it was time to take it back. And what better way to do that than to face your fears one last time?

“Hey, Richie,” Stan said, shaking the other boy roughly enough to wake him but gently enough so he didn’t hurt him. Richie stirred, before his eyes slowly revealed themselves, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. 

“Hey,” Richie started slowly, before a look of panic spread across his face. “Oh crap, did I fall asleep? Cause I didn’t mean to...”

“...Never become a spy,” Stan told him, “You’re shitty at lying.”

Richie sighed.

“Look, I’m really sorry, but you haven’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, and since we started sleeping in the same bed I haven’t been getting a lot of sleep, and I just thought that if I close my eyes even for a little bit I’ll feel better...”

“No no no,” Stan told him reassuringly, “I’m not upset with you; I’m just telling you I’m going to the bathroom.”

Richie furrowed his brows.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, “I thought I’d tell you so you don’t wake up and freak out that I’m not there.”

“Yeah yeah, I get it,” Richie said, “You don’t need me to come in with you, right? Like in case you fall asleep on the toilet or something?” 

“No, of course not,” Stan said, his face twisting with disgust.

“Good,” Richie said, “Cause we’re not there yet.”

“Agreed,” Stan told him, before crawling out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

“Hey, mind if I keep napping while you’re gone?” Richie asked. “You can wake me up when you get back.”

“No problem,” Stan said, before closing the door behind him. He sighed with relief; it was actually for the best if Richie was asleep. The whole point of being in the bathroom anyways was so that the other boy wouldn’t wake him up if he had another nightmare. He needed to face Pennywise, once and for all, even if it was only in a dream, and he couldn’t do that with Richie by his side. He was going to face that clown alone, and he was going to kick It’s ass. Locking the bathroom door, he made his way into the bathtub and laid down. The plastic was hard against his body, and the tub’s small size didn’t exactly give him lots of legroom, but nonetheless he could feel himself starting to doze off. For the first time in so long, he didn’t dread what he might see on the other side. Because maybe the nightmares weren’t a life sentence. Maybe they were a way of giving him the chance to finally overcome what had happened to him, instead of letting it take control of his life for years to come. As the world around him blacked out, he tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach, and the doubts in himself that ran through his mind, forcing him to reconsider what he was doing. But most of all, he tried to ignore what looked suspiciously like a pair of yellow eyes watching him from the space where the bathroom door met the floor.

... 

Napping turned out to be a lot more difficult for Richie than he had expected. Every time he tried to let his tiredness sweep him away into a blissful slumber, he would hear a noise that sounded an awful lot like either something making their way inside the building or Stan tripping and falling. Of course he just _had_ to open his eyes every time to check if things were okay, and then he’d be back to square one all over again. Sighing, he kicked the suffocating bed sheets off of him and turned onto his other side. _I really hope Stan’s okay._

…

Stan was not okay. Stan was very, very not okay. Shin deep in greywater, his legs had suddenly lost all ability to move, leaving him still as a statue while the red balloon sailed through the air, coming closer and closer until he could see his reflection in its shiny latex. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in the sewers, or how he had gotten there, only that if he didn’t get out as quickly as possible he’d be face to face with Pennywise. He couldn’t handle that again. His heart might just explode. For some reason, that night he didn’t feel like a victim. He felt like everything that was coming to him was all his fault, that somehow he had gotten himself into this mess. Despite all that, he couldn’t help but be distracted by a sort of pounding in his mind, the kind he got whenever there was something he desperately needed to remember, but just couldn’t. It was on the tip of his tongue, practically screaming to get out, and his brain had gone haywire trying to help it do so. Stan couldn’t even focus on the shiny reflection of himself that inched closer; the unknown thought was taking up all of his attention, burning its way through his mind like a firecracker before finally exploding in a hazy, vibrantly coloured wave of realization. 

Regaining the feeling in his legs, Stan took a step back and looked at his surroundings, noticing the greasy walls and filthy water and random objects that swam around him. With the balloon now floating inches away from his face, he thought about how stupid he was for not getting it sooner.

“This isn’t real,” Stan remembered, the words stopping the balloon dead in its tracks as soon as he spoke them. “It’s just...a dream.”

The balloon’s string snapped forward, like a python lunging after its prey, before wrapping itself around Stan’s neck, the tight pressure nearly crushing his throat. Lifting him out of the water, the balloon rose to the ceiling, leaving Stan to gag and choke as he dangled from the floating object. His throat was set ablaze with burning, fiery pain, and every uneven gasp for air was rendered useless by the tightening string’s unbearable hold on him. Curling his fingers around his noose, he tried to loosen its grip on him, but the edge of his vision was already blackening, and his mind was only getting more and more panicked.

“You’re not real, you’re not real,” Stan managed to cough out, before starting to feel the tension on his throat ease up. “You’re not real…” 

The string suddenly began to loosen up, giving Stan the chance to grab the tie and yank it off of him, leaving him to plummet down into the water. Gasping for air, Stan could feel the pain slipping away, like sand in an hourglass of hurt, and before he knew it he was back on his feet again. 

“Richie,” Stan said to himself, his breath now coming back to him,“Richie’s real. And he’s waiting for me back...” 

A loud, powerful sound cut him off before he could finish, as a mist of blood unleashed itself upon his body, covering it all in a crimson spray. As scraps of what once was the balloon fell down into the water, a group of long, outstretched fingers curled their way onto his shoulder.

“Oh fuck.”

He turned his head turned to look up at the towering clown that stood over him.

 _“Hi.”_ Pennywise grabbed ahold of Stan’s other shoulder and lifted him into the air, before slamming his back against the wall with an agonizing force. Stan winced in pain as his bones screamed and ached, blood starting to drip from the back of his head down through the curls of his hair. 

“Let me go!” Stan yelled, kicking his legs as he tried to push the demon off of him.

Pennywise simply chuckled in his face, the familiarity of his laugh and the joy in his face sickening Stan to his stomach.

 _“Let you go?”_ It asked, still chuckling uncontrollably, It’s head nearly vibrating with rotten laughter. Bringing It’s smile down, the clown growled at the boy, the look on the demon’s face completely shifting from one of joyful amusement into one of pure disdain. _“Never! Not again! I should have killed you when I had the chance! I should’ve killed you all when I had the chance!”_ _  
_The fury in the demon’s eyes bored into Stan’s soul, to the point where he had to shut his eyes and turn his head away.

 _“I should have crushed you under my boot like the bratty cockroaches you really are! I should have torn into your flesh from your bones until the last thing you hear is each other’s screams! Let you go? No, no.”_

Pennywise growled again, before dropping Its hold on Stan’s shoulders, causing the boy to fall to his knees. His head throbbing and his body still aching, Stan frantically crawled on all fours, before a surge of agony sliced through his back. He screamed in pain as Pennywise dug It’s pointed nails further and further into the boy’s flesh, carving into it until drops of blood stained his wet shirt. Chuckling so loudly that laughter rang throughout the entire sewer, Pennywise took It’s hand off from Stan’s body, the brief relief from pain lasting only seconds before the demon kicked the boy into the water, It’s long, pointed shoes frantically pounding against him until he lost all sense of feeling. Letting his body be carried by the water, Stan drifted along the current, his energy draining as he coughed out filth from his lungs.

 _“Go on”_ Pennywise told him, _“Be afraid. It’s what you do best, after all.”_

Coughing out the last drops of water, Stan felt his hand suddenly reaching into the piles of garbage that floated around him, searching and searching for something until it had found what it had been looking for. The object felt familiar, but whatever it was, it wasn’t something that brought back particularly pleasant memories.

 _“Or of course I could just kill you,”_ Pennywise snarled, before the jarring, searing feeling of something sharp piercing his skin tore through Stan. Turning his head, he saw his own hand holding his father’s razor, slicing up his forearm like a butcher mincing a mound of meat. Oozing from the cuts in his flesh, blood dripped out into the water, drenching his sleeves and the pieces of trash he was clinging to. He tried to get himself to stop, tried to pry the blade away from his arm, but it was no use: his hand was now its own master. Yet somehow, he knew it wasn’t acting on its own; something deep inside him had taken control, the same thing that had led him to start cutting himself in the first place. And maybe it was time to start listening to it.

 _“Come join the clown,”_ Pennywise invited, It’s grin widening as it watched over the boy. Stan could barely hear It, though; all he was could focus on was the screaming, excruciating agony that flooded his senses. It would only be temporary, though; soon enough the pain would go away. It would all go away: Pennywise, the dreams, his fear, everything. With his hand shaking slightly, Stan could feel himself regaining control, but nevertheless continued slicing through his flesh.

_“Everything floats down here, Stanley.”_

The razor carved another mark onto Stan’s arm, as the edge of the boy’s vision began to close in on him. 

_“Everything! We all float!”_

Stan could feel his consciousness slipping away, like smoke fading away into the night sky, and as the blade dug into another part of his arm, he let his eyelids droop over his remaining vision. He was done. He was broken, beaten, damaged beyond repair. And he was okay with that. At least this way he could be at peace.

_“Even Richie.”_

Stan’s eyes opened wide.

“What did you say?” Stan asked, his head slowly losing its grogginess as the world around him restored itself, becoming clearer and clearer like a self-polishing crystal.

 _“Richie’ll float too!”_ Pennywise chuckled.

Stan heard once that people tend to see their lives flash before them when they’re about to die, every moment in their existence squished down into a few, blurred seconds. As he bled out into the sewers, Stan experienced something a little different: he saw Richie, wearing his thick, black glasses over his handsome face, his lips curved into a joyful smile as he jumped off the cliff and fell into the river. The others were there too, Bill and Eddie and Ben and Beverly, and just the sight of them was enough to warm his heart. That day was a blast for him, for all of them, and was one of the rare moments from the summer where he actually had fun. The sight was quickly replaced by the inside of a dimly lit theatre, the beam coming out of the projector acting as the only source of light in the entire room, save for the flashes of sound and colour playing on the screen. Stan’s lips were pressed against Richie’s, working against them like a current washing over rocks as the other boy shut his eyes and joined in. The memory conjured feelings of nervousness and joy, peace and chaos, shock and expectancy, until Stan started to giggle with the rush of emotion. Next up was the caretaker’s bedroom, where Stan’s body rested perfectly in Richie’s arms, the way a blooming rose perfectly fit inside a vase of crystal clear water. He felt warm, and peaceful, and safe, but most of all he felt _loved_. He felt the infuriating tickling of butterflies in his stomach, the surge of excitement so powerful he could never keep a straight face, the all-encompassing sanity of perfect lunacy that everyone longed to experience. 

_“Come on, Stanley,”_ Pennywise hissed, starting his walk towards him, _“I have six more of you to visit, and I haven’t got all night.”_

All Stan could see now was his sliced up arm, and the blood that poured out of his veins until it had covered his limb in a sheen of red. _Richie,_ Stan thought to himself, _Richie’s waiting for me. My friends are waiting for me. I can’t give up like this. I need to see him again, I need to see them again, I need him to see that I’m okay..._ a thought washed over Stan, like a tidal wave over a beach of pebbles. Yes, he saw Richie and his friends just then, but they weren’t the only thing those memories had in common. In every one of those moments, he had felt a balance of everything. The fear of diving into the cold water, of his first kiss, of what dreams awaited him. The sadness of knowing the moments wouldn’t last forever, but also the joy of splashing around, kissing the boy he loved, and cuddling tightly. And maybe that’s what alive really meant: feeling everything. But he couldn’t do that as a rotting corpse. _I need to be okay. Not just for Richie, or my friends, but for me too. I won’t keep missing out on my life. I won’t and I can’t. I need to face It. And I need to win._

Wrapping his fingers around the razor’s handle, he slowly pulled it out from one of the fresher cuts on his arm, a squirt of blood briefly spurting as the sight of vibrant red against shined silver greeted him.

 _“We all float down here,”_ Pennywise repeated, now only inches away from him, _“You’ll float too.”_

Stan let out a small, nervous laugh, before bringing his aching body to stand. He turned around, staring up at his nightmare, looking It dead in It’s vengeful eyes.

“No…”

Stan reached out for the clown’s hand, before grabbing it by It’s wrist, and yanking it towards him.

“...I…”

Bringing the blade to the demon’s blindingly bright flesh, he pressed down, instantly seeing droplets of red against chalk white.

“...won’t.”

Stan swung his arm to the side, dragging the razor’s sharp edge through Pennywise’s skin, blood starting to gush through the growing tear in It’s flesh and veins until the blade had sliced its way across the clown’s arm. For a few seconds, everything went quiet. Then it all went to hell. 

Pennywise smacked Stan to the side, sending the boy flying to the wall before falling down into the water. It’s eyes bulged and became nuclear storms of colour, one flashing an electric blue while the other morphed into a sinister shade of red. They both flashed yellow, then exchanged their former colours, and so on and so on until It’s screams became the only thing Stan could focus on. As blood poured out of Pennywise’s wrist, It shrieked at the top of It’s lungs, cries of pure anger towards Stanley. Although fury wasn’t the only emotion the boy could hear; Pennywise was afraid, for only the second time in Its existence. The shrill sounds nearly tore apart the boy’s ears, when suddenly the world around him started to change. It was fading in, fading out, but doing so jarringly, as if all of reality was glitching and imploding in on itself. Fountains of red continued to spray in all directions, up and down, left and right, making the balloon’s supply seem like a cheap party trick. Cracks started to carve their way onto Penywise’s head, blood seeping through them as pieces of Its face started to break off and float through the air.

Now completely drenched in It’s blood, Stan was easily swept away into the madness that had become his dream. Soon, the world around him had become so broken, so distorted, that his mind couldn’t even process what was happening around him. Every second that passed was now a flash of a confused moment in time. One, the red balloon, two, Pennywise, three, Richie, four, You’ll Float Too, five, No I Won’t. One, two, three, four, five, red balloon, Pennywise, Richie, You’ll Float Too, No I Won’t. Red balloon, Pennywise, Richie, You’ll Float Too, No I Won’t. Balloon Red, Richie, Pennywise, Float Too You’ll, Won’t I Not Red balloon Pennywise Richie You’ll Float Too No I Won’t Red balloon Pennywise Richie bathtub red balloon Pennywise flat red balloon Pennywise darkness fading in red balloon waking up…

…

Stan awoke with a jar, his body moving so suddenly that he smashed his head against the wall behind him. Wincing in pain, he could still feel his heart throbbing against his chest, his pulse so powerful it made his bones ache. His body was shaking like a cup of water during an earthquake, as he felt suffocatingly hot and painfully cold all at once. He quickly got on his feet and stepped out of the bathtub, eager to get out of the room as soon as possible. Opening the door, he felt it smash into something heavy, before a groan of agony hissed through the air.

“Ah, shit!” Richie exclaimed, sprawled out on the floor like a whale as he massaged his forehead.

“Richie?” Stan asked, looking down to see the boy.

Richie opened his eyes and looked up at his boyfriend.

“Oh, thank fuck you’re okay.”

“Yeah, of course I am,” Stan told him, trying to hide that he was shaken up in any way. When he knew that his voice was starting to sell him out, he quickly changed the subject by asking, “What were you doing against the door?”

“Oh right. I wanted to make sure I could let you know if anything weird started going on,” Richie explained, “This way we’d have more time to get out together. Plus it’s just better for me to be closer to you in case you need something... ”

Stan dropped onto the floor so quickly his knees almost made dents in the floor, before sliding closer to Richie and wrapping his arms around the boy. Burying his head in his boyfriend’s shoulder, he felt his boyfriend squeeze him tightly, until Stan and Richie let themselves be completely supported by the embrace. 

“Must’ve been some shit.”

“Yeah,” Stan said, laughing behind his tears.

Curling up into each other’s arms, the two boys suddenly felt their eyelids growing heavier, until they finally gave in, closed their eyes, and drifted away, the sounds of each other’s breaths and the warmth of the other’s body lulling them off to sleep like the sweetest of lullabies.

…

The sky was a dark shade of blue, pretty much black in fact, as Richie started to wake from his sleep. Slowly sitting up, he fixed his glasses, which had somehow tilted to the point where they were at risk of falling off his head completely. He released a deep, loud yawn. 

“Hey, Stan…” Richie started, his voice low and his words stretched out as he closed his gaping mouth, before looking around to see that his boyfriend was nowhere to be found. “Stan?”

Footsteps rang through the air, the pitter patter of feet against tile continuing until Stan showed up in the doorway of the kitchen, dressed in the white undershirt and blue palm tree button-up top that Richie had worn the night before. There was a tiredness to his face, but also a certain kind of glow, one that Richie hadn’t seen so much of since the summer. 

“Hey, you’re up,” Stan commented, his lips curved into a subtle yet no less adorable smile. “Great timing. I just made us some breakfast.”

Like a bloodthirsty hyena, Richie’s stomach growled loudly, making him pretty happy when Stan walked over to him and handed him a spoon. 

“Sit tight, I’ll be right back,” Stan told him, before leaving to walk back into the kitchen. As he overheard the opening of drawers and the clinking of cutlery, Richie made out another, more interesting sound: Stan seemed to have been screaming. Only his words weren’t loud at all; they were soft and quiet, almost like vibrating buzzes coming from the boy’s throat. They also sounded weirdly similar to, “Take On Me.” Could it be that Stan was... _humming_? Stranger things have happened.

“Here you go,” Stan said as he walked back into the room, holding two small bowls that overflowed with milk and Pac-Man cereal. Taking a seat on the floor, he handed one over to Richie and sat down on the floor beside him. He gestured towards the bowl in Richie’s hands and invited the boy to dig in.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Richie told him, eager to quell the burning hunger in his stomach with cereal so sweet it was probably just sugar that had gotten clumped together. The sight of artificially colourful video game characters against milk as bright as snow seemed to have reined in Stan’s attention, because he was staring at the bowl in his hands like it was the next best thing to a Playboy magazine. 

“You okay?” Richie asked, simply spooning the food in his mouth.

“Yeah,” Stan said, “I just kinda feel like staring at this for a while.”

“God you’re weird,” Richie said to himself.

“If weird means hung,” Stan told him as he started scooping up his breakfast, bringing the spoon to his lips before slowly sipping it out.

Richie watched the boy closely, paying attention to every move of the muscles of Stan’s face. Eventually, he seemed to take notice. 

“What are you doing?” Stan asked curiously. 

“You’re asking _me_ what I’m doing?” Richie asked.

“Yeah,” Stan told him, “You’re looking at me weirdly.”

“Yeah, because you’re _acting_ weirdly,” Richie told him.

“No I’m not,” Stan told him defensively, “It’s just...a good day, that’s all.”

The shades of embarrassment on the boy’s face were outshined by the glimmer of light in his auburn eyes.

“Huh,” Richie said to himself, before going in for another bite of cereal, “I think I like good days.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stan told him, smiling softly as he continued eating.

“Though I hate to break it to you,” Richie started, mock pity in his voice, “You just can’t pull off the whole button up over undershirt look.”

“Right, you keep telling yourself that,” Stan said to him. “Plus, we both know you’re never gonna wash this shirt now that I’ve worn it.”

“And what happened to your hair, dude?” Richie asked. “You look like a Troll.”

“Like the dolls?” Stan asked with a smile, brushing his hand across his messy curls. “How?”

“Hold on,” Richie told him, before setting down the cereal bowl and crawling closer to him. Bringing his hands to Stan’s scalp, Richie grouped together most of the strands into his fist and pushed them together, trying to hold them in place until they made the shape he wanted.

“ _Now_ you look like a Troll,” Richie told him.

Stan pushed the boy’s hands off of him and fixed his hair, making sure it went back to its normal state. He didn’t seem to care that much about his hair being messed up before Richie took so much pleasure in seeing it.

“So,” Richie started, going back to eating his breakfast, “Any reason why it’s a good day?”

Stan’s face changed like an autumn leave, not so much losing its vibrancy, but rather reinventing it. He scooped the last of his cereal into his mouth and slurped down the leftover milk, before setting the bowl down again.

“I- uh- yeah, there is,” Stan told him strangely, as if the reason for his happiness was also the source of his anxieties.

Richie thought for a moment. A good boyfriend would offer to talk about things. A better boyfriend would offer to talk about things only if Stan was comfortable doing so. And a bad boyfriend would just continue having fun as if nothing had ever happened. But he wasn’t any of those; he wasn’t forced into acting a certain way when he was around Stan, which was part of why he liked being with the boy in the first place. If either of them had wanted a normal relationship, they would’ve dated a nice girl (probably from their own religion) and found support and comfort and all the other shit people find in one of their mom’s cheesy romance books. But here was the thing: neither of them wanted to be normal, at least not by 1989’s standards. They wanted to be themselves. Still, maybe not all of the social norms were such a bad idea. Stan would probably appreciate some typical boyfriend behaviour.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Richie offered. “I mean, only if you want to.”

Stan cast a troubled gaze at him, one that Richie would’ve taken more seriously if it weren’t for the milk mustache above his lips.

“Sure,” Stan said, “Yeah sure, we can talk.”

He cleared his throat, his eyes darting between the empty bowl, the marks on his arm, and the boy in front of him.

“So you know how I keep having nightmares about what happened last summer?” Stan asked.

Richie pretended to think deeply.

“I think you may’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but could do nothing to hide the strange, almost grateful look in them, or the small grin on his face.

“Well last night, I woke up and decided I just didn’t wanna keep doing it anymore,” Stan explained, “I didn’t wanna keep living that way. So I went to the bathroom, got in the tub, and went to sleep.”

“What? Why?” Richie asked.

“I wanted to face my fears,” Stan told him, “and I wanted to do it alone this time. Without you or even the others there to help me. I needed to be the one to help myself.”

“Huh,” Richie said, “so...did it work?”

“Yeah, I actually think it did,” Stan told him, “I mean, for the first time in so long I actually feel like I used to. I feel like me again.”

With his eyes wet and filled with concern, Stan started to chuckle to himself.

“And it’s really weird,” He confessed, still giggling, “Like, there are so many things to feel when you’re not so focused on just one, you know?”

“You sure that was sugar on the doughnuts we had last night?” Richie asked.

“I’m not high, Richie,” Stan told him, a smile on his face, “I’m...alive.”

Richie took another look at the boy in front of him; despite what he said, he was still acting weirdly. Stan was a pretty mellow kind of person most of the time. But if what he told Richie was true, then maybe he just needed some time to get used to being himself again. He knew he shouldn’t have, but Richie couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how amazing it would be if Stan could be okay again, back to the way he was before he went through so much.

“So, you’re saying you’re better now?” Richie asked with carefully restrained hope. “You’re not gonna keep freaking out every time you try to sleep?”

Stan’s smile dropped as he darted his eyes downwards, blankly staring at the mark on his wrist as if he had expected it to disappear overnight.

“I don’t know,” He told Stan as he looked into his eyes. “I mean, I don’t think I can just go on like nothing ever happened.”

“But I thought you said…” Richie started.

“...I said I think I’ll be okay,” Stan explained, “and I do. I really do.”

Richie thought for a moment.

“Well, either way you know I’ll be here, right?” Richie told him, sliding the boy’s hand into his own and squeezing it tightly.

Stan smiled again.

“Yeah, I know.”

...

After brushing their teeth and changing into some early-December appropriate clothes, Stan and Richie were all set to leave the flat and join their friends. As the former finished inspecting the apartment to make sure no evidence of the night they spent was left behind, he glanced over his shoulder to see Richie standing by the door, bobbing to a song that was stuck in his head while holding both of their schoolbags. Stan’s was draped around the other boy’s shoulders, while his own was left dangling from his arm, dragging across the floor.

“Hey,” Stan called, before walking over to his boyfriend and sliding his bag off the boy’s shoulders.

“You sure?” Richie asked. “I really don’t mind carrying it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Stan told him, slipping his arms through the bag’s handles until it rested on his back. “It’s mine anyways.”

“Okay,” Richie said, before swinging his bag from his arm to his shoulders, allowing him to hold it more easily. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Stan said.

Richie smiled a bit awkwardly, before asking, “So, we all set?”

“Yeah,” Stan said with a sigh, “We’re all set. It’s a shame though; I’m gonna miss this place.”

“We can always come back,” Richie reminded, “No need to get your pussy in a bunch.”

“Well my dad said he’s looking into getting a new caretaker,” Stan explained, “So I’m not sure how much longer we can just squat here.”

“Oh,” Richie realized, his head bowed as he cleared his throat,“Well, we’ll just have to find a new spot. Back of the movies?”

“No, it’s too risky,” Stan said, “This place was perfect. We never had to worry about being caught, plus we’ve made so many memories here.”

“Yeah, of you freaking out in the middle of the night,” Richie reminded, “Maybe finding a new place will be good. We’ll make better memories.”

Stan cocked his head.

“But then again,” Richie started, “It’ll be hard beating last night’s kiss. And by the way, you’re welcome for carrying the team.”

“Wow,” Stan said, “Do you need to get your head checked or something? Because I’m pretty sure I remember doing most of the work while you kinda just sat there taking it all in.”

Richie’s smile suddenly faltered, becoming more and more awkward by the second.

“I don’t know if I need my head checked,” Richie said, “I mean, if you want to you could. Like, check my head. To see if anything’s wrong.”

Stan thought for a moment.

“Okay, sure,” He said, leaning forward as he placed his hands on the other boy’s head. He tilted it slightly, inspecting everywhere from the back of Richie’s neck to his scalp to the tip of his chin, trying to see if there were any signs of damage.

“Oh God,” Stan said to himself.

“What? What is it?” Richie asked.

“You’re fucked,” Stan told him, “Permanent brain damage, probably. That explains every grade you’ve ever gotten.”

“Yeah,” Richie told him, “plus why I’m dating you.”

The two bumped fists at the exact same time.

“Still,” Stan started, “I think you’re just fine.”

“Really?” Richie asked, smiling.

“Uh-huh,” Stan said. 

He wasn’t sure why he wanted to kiss Richie so much in that moment; the timing just felt right. But by the time he reached the other boy’s sweet, soft lips, he knew that he had made the right choice. He felt a rush of adrenaline, but also a relaxing haze of bliss, as if his heart was able to store emotions like a sharpener stored pencil shavings, jagged, imperfect things all held together in one fragile case. Behind closed eyes, he could feel Richie’s chest pressed tightly against his own, and the other boy’s tongue swishing around in his mouth in search of Stan’s. He felt as warm as a roll of bread fresh out of the oven, melting away all other sensations that weren’t from the kiss. Slowly breaking apart, Stan took a moment to catch his breath,

“I’m gonna open my eyes now,” he told Richie.

“Wait!” Richie said.

Stan kept his eyelids closed, and furrowed his brows.

“What?” he asked.

“You sure you wanna go for it just like that?” Richie asked. “I mean, last time we tried this…”

“...things are different now,” Stan reminded.

“Sure, but like you said, we’re never gonna be exactly like we were before, and I…” Richie clenched his face together, and rolled his lips into his mouth. “...I don’t think we should risk it.” Bringing his hand to Stan’s, he intertwined their fingers like strips of lace being woven into a blanket, and then squeezed tightly. For a moment, Stan had to wonder if maybe Richie was right to worry about him. Maybe he was overestimating his newfound bravery. 

“Ready?” Richie asked.

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

Stan let his eyelids recoil over his vision, letting reality slip in. It took a few moments for everything around him to come to full clarity, but he didn’t need to see to feel the anxiety wafting around the other boy.

“You good?” Richie asked.

Stan smiled; the only thing he could see was the familiar, handsome face of the boy he loved. And hated. But mostly loved.

“Yeah, of course. I’m with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I started this story after getting home from the movie back in 2017, and finished it shortly after,but was only prompted to publish it here after that AWESOME!!! IT Chapter Two trailer that just came out of Comic-Con, so it's pretty cool to finally post it and share it for others to hopefully enjoy. I've always kind of been insecure about being Jewish because of some things kids at school would say or just the general lack of Jewish people I was close with, so when I saw Stanley practicing for his Bar Mitzvah (like I did!), he instantly made me proud of who I am and became a character that was close to my heart. I wrote a Part 2 of the story as well, and I'm planning a Part 3, but first let me know if you're interested in the comments down below. Bye Bye!


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